Stephen Gilfedder: ‘The Commercial Traveller at the Bar’ and ‘After Parthenius’

The Commercial Traveller at the Bar

Beret on a slant, cultivated mo, the stripey top,
Strings of onions from Con the Greek
Around the handlebars, practising “Madame”
Calling door-to-door pretending to be French.
Charming housewives sweeping verandahs
With my miracle combination brushes, demoing
Vacuum cleaners on shag pile with iron filings,
Driving the kombi piled high with kiddies wear
From outside Vinnies, “Greensleeves” on rotation.
Comforting war widows in the back parlour
Leafing through their wedding albums,
Promising to write and ducking bullets
From the kids playing cowboys and Indians
As I took my leave, order book in hand.

Kicking up dust in the back blocks with stacks
Of feed and fertilizer, grizzled cockies staring
Out across denuded paddocks, planting seeds
Of hope out of all proportion, making prospects good.
Gay times revealing the miracle lint remover,
Playing a wine snob with pallets of vinegar plonk
With great days at the shearers selling undercover
The last of the Kiwi wide combs, with knock-off
RM Williams cords and stetsons thrown in.
Those sundowns pitching camp, breaking out the snags
With Tex, Slim and Smoky on the Radiola,
A VB in one hand, an Ardath in the other.
Before turning in, kneeling on my swag, blessing
The wad of notes, planning next year’s sweep.

Stephen Gilfedder

After Parthenius

In the echo chamber beneath the morning swell,
I swim the septic green of the rough sea pool,
Waves slapping over iron-grouted basalt,
Pitted and razor-sharp, dissolving
Webs of foam curving from the edge.
From the windy sheds in the Twenties
Boy Charlton smeared with muttonbird oil
Stretched laps that ended in the ozone dark,
His trainer shouting splits from a fob-sourced truth.
Defined to one-hundredths, slicked and epicene
I perform stroking and tumbling from that moment
On the blocks, diving into the image of myself.

Stephen Gilfedder